Guilt
by Spyrkle10
Summary: Sticks and bones may break bones, but words will always break me.


Harry whimpered, curled up into a ball in his cupboard. Today was his birthday. Uncle and Aunt had given him some crayons. Dudley wanted new ones. But he had been bad. The crayons, when they were dropped into his hands, became new again. He was very bad. His crayons were still in his closed fist, green and red and blue and all the colors of the rainbow, but he was bad. Uncle yelled at him, "Shut up!" He is silent as the spiders in the corner. Slowly, reluctantly, he opens his hand to see his presen- "Keep your freakishness to yourself!" screams Aunt. Harry's hand becomes a fist again. Tears pool in his eyes. He blinks.

Harry uncurls before spreading out his prize. He is seven today, and so he will break six crayons. He's not six anymore. He snaps each crayon, his face still moist, his mind trying and failing to push away the guilt. When he's done, Harry picks up the purple crayon, examining the wet crayon. He wipes away the tears; he's a big boy now. They yell more when he cries. Suddenly, he hears Dudley jumping on the stairs. Hungry, tired, and guilty, Harry falls asleep.

"Wake up, Freak! Time for your chores!" Uncle booms. Harry comes alive as if he had been shocked by lightning, straightening his broken glasses and sweeping away the crayons to the side of the cupboard. Aunt unlocks the door, and he scurries to the sink, scrubbing at the dishes from breakfast. He grabs the small plate, filled with a feast of cold toast, slightly burnt bacon, and muffin crumbs. Harry fills his glass, always set aside for him, with cold water, chugging it down as he shoves food into his mouth. Swallowing, he cleans his plate and his glass, putting them in their places.

Harry rushes to the garden, grabbing the hose and turning on the water. He runs to the flower beds, watering them under Aunt's watchful eyes. He then quickly turns off the water, his haste accentuated by the need to redeem himself. He holds back his questions, rising to the surface, but soon blurts out the most dangerous question. "Aunt, do you forgive me for being a freak again?" Aunt screeches, "Never!" Pain. Harry sobbed, kneeling on the wet earth, hugging himself. He wanted love. His screams and sniffles were ignored as he was dragged to his cupboard by Uncle, who yelled at him.

The cupboard door closed, and Uncle's yells bit into him. Guilt surged to the surface. Why couldn't he be good? Harry curled up again before the door opened. "Freak, school," Aunt ordered. Harry walked out of the cupboard, grabbed his backpack, and shuffled to the bus. Uncle's car roared by, Dudley grinning like a shark and waving as they passed Harry. The bus was late.

At school, he was silent, never volunteering for any activity. The day flew by, as Harry had managed to avoid recess trouble with Dudley. The bus home was early. When he got home, Harry chopped up the components of dinner with his butter knife. He was very proud of how he could cut almost as fast as Aunt with his special knife. Uncle's car rolled into the driveway loudly, and Aunt shooed Harry out of the kitchen. He sat in his cupboard for hours, doing his homework with his broken crayons and doodling motorcycles, cats and big black dogs on the back.

Hours later, Uncle thrust open the door and stormed away, muttering about teachers who gave homework too difficult for his precious Dudley. Harry immediately pulled up his slightly drooping sleeves and got to work cleaning the dishes. He hummed a tune as he worked. "Where did you hear that, Freak?" Aunt asked, scowling. "Our teacher showed us a movie, and the little dwarfs sung this tune!" Harry replied, smiling. He was happy that Aunt had spoken to him about something other than him, to him. "Be quiet, Boy," Vernon commanded from the living room. Harry then hummed quietly, not wanting to stop. Surely Uncle wouldn't mind? As he put away the last of the dishes, Aunt grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hissing, "Stop humming, Freak." She handed him his plate of chicken, vegetables, and the scraps of rice at the bottom of the bowl and led him to the cupboard.

Half an hour later, Harry's plate was taken away. He was a very bad freak. Why would he be so bad for Aunt and Uncle, who gave him food and took him in and gave him clothes and a warm place to sleep? He scratched out his doodles from earlier, tears falling onto the page. His crayon became new again in his hand. He broke it again, just like before. Maybe, one day, he could listen to everything Aunt and Uncle said and get along with Dudley and be a good boy. Harry felt that that day would never come. The Boy Who Lived cried himself to sleep.


End file.
